A Case of Momentum
by 7percent
Summary: A string of brutal murders and a personal vendetta against men of the law; what more can Sherlock Holmes ask for? The fun becomes grim reality when the cryptic messages are translated into a motive, and Sherlock and John go from observers to targets.
1. From a Standstill

Honestly, I'm surprised by the amount of positive feedback I received for my first story. Thank you to everyone who read. Alight with inspiration, I am back with the start of a multi-chapter story. Again, feedback would be very helpful as I try to get a good feel for writing the theme and characters of Sherlock. I hope you enjoy!

**Title:** A Case of Momentum  
**Rating: **T (will probably change due to graphic violence)  
**Pairings:** None yet. Possible SH/JW  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**Summary:** A sudden string of murders breaks up the monotonous, dull life that had plagued Sherlock and John for several weeks. The victims, brutally butchered and marred with a cryptic message, are all loved ones of someone in the law. Their investigation uncovers a puzzle that spells out a tale of loss, mourning and retribution. And as the pair get caught up in the rapidly moving case, they come to realize that they might not just be observers, but targets themselves.

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**Chapter I - From a Standstill**

Silence hung heavy over the flat like a dark cloud. Silence and a godawful stench.

John Watson felt a growing sense of dread as he descended the stairs to enter the sitting room, where the smell only grew stronger. It was not unlike half-cooked flesh. It had first hit him when he had gotten out of the bathroom after a shower, and the steam no longer smothered it out. Apparently his flatmate was awake and keeping busy with something. He hated to investigate it, he really did. But curiosity never let him ignore such things.

Still buttoning up his shirt, he approached the entranceway into the kitchen. By now the smell was causing the muscles in his throat and stomach to clench in the beginnings of a gag. He had to breathe through his mouth just to keep from being ill. As expected, there was Sherlock, focused on something set on the counter in a deep tray. The sleeves of the detective's dress shirt were rolled up, and from his angle John could see the surgical gloves on his hands, covered in what looked like blood. And - was that the _carving knife_? He let out a sigh.

"Nothing on him yet?" he asked, still working on his buttons. "Had to steal something else from Bart's to keep busy?" It was alarming that he was becoming jaded to this sort of thing.

Sherlock grunted, his eyes flicking over to the doctor briefly. "No. They weren't willing to part with a human heart. The boys in stroke research have first pick. Got this from the butcher." he muttered, obviously still in a sour mood. John had noticed a pattern in his flatmate's moods in the past few months. After the encounter with Moriarty and their narrow escape, Sherlock became something of a determined hunter. For weeks he tracked any sign and hint, heeding the criminal's warning and being as careful as possible. However, as John observed his friend's growing frustration, it became apparent that it was like hunting a ghost. Moriarty left them nothing.

With Sherlock's frustration came attempts at keeping himself occupied. Experiments to let his mind 'rest'. In these times, he was in low spirits and difficult to talk to. He would be like this until either he recharged or he grew bored of the project, then he would jump right back into his hunt. John had watched this pattern, this fluctuation, occur for weeks. One could not help but feel a little helpless, like watching a friend battle depression. It was as close to such a mental state that Sherlock Holmes could reach.

"And I see they still won't let you leave with anything sharp? Which explains your need to use my late mother's carving knife?" Annoyance grew in John's voice as he watched Sherlock slice into whatever sat in the dissecting tray. However, he supposed it was indirect revenge. Sherlock had asked to borrow his old surgery kit from his service, but he had refused. It was for helping people; for medical service. Not for dissecting whatever struck someone's fancy. When Sherlock offered no response to his irritated questions, John deemed his knife lost and retired to the sitting room. He eased into his armchair and reached for the paper that had been dropped on the floor. There was already an expectation that there would be nothing notable in the news this morning. Otherwise his flatmate would be a little more cheery with the news of an odd, unsolved murder.

And so, the regular morning routine. John reading the paper, and Sherlock slicing up some organ in the kitchen in the name of science. When he wrote this sort of thing in his blog, people hardly believed him. Even his sister managed to leave snide comments, telling him he was full of it. Perhaps one day he should take a photograph of Sherlock in the midst of an experiment; it was rather amazing to see such focus in a man.

Such focus, in fact, that only John heard the sound alert on Sherlock's mobile phone. He listened, but only heard the continued scraping of a knife against metal and the sticky, wet sounds of tissue being pulled apart. Sherlock was ignoring his phone. That was a first.

"Sherlock?" He shifted to look back into the kitchen. God, that smell was terrible. It was a moment before he got a response.

"Hm? Right, it's been doing that all morning. I asked you earlier to get my phone out of my jacket." He did not even look away from his work.

"I was in the shower." John growled.

"No matter, you're here now."

Really, he did not know why he did this. Why he humoured Sherlock by crossing two rooms to pick up something that his flatmate could have reached by simply turning around. However, with nothing but an unheard sigh of annoyance, he did just that. He reached into the jacket that was draped over the back of a kitchen chair and pulled out the phone. While he was there, he took a quick glance over his shoulder to see what exactly required the other's full attention.

As expected, a heart lay in the tray. It had to be a pig's, judging by the size. He also caught a glimpse of what looked like an old pacemaker and a large battery. And, of course, more of his knives and a pair of tweezers that could only have come from the first aid kit under the bathroom sink.

"John." Sherlock's tone was impatient. With a simple shake of the head, the doctor turned his attention back to the phone. Much to his surprise, three missed texts were waiting to be read. He opened them in order.

_**Lestrade - 8:45am**_  
**32 Glenalmond Rd, Harrow. Need your help.**

_**Lestrade - 9:30am**_  
**Cant keep them from cleaning up the scene forever.**

_**Lestrade - 10:30am**_  
**Damnit Sherlock whatever you are dissecting/microwaving in your kitchen can wait but I cant**

John could not help the chuckle that escaped him, and he looked to Sherlock. The taller man was still entirely focused on the heart, now peeling back layers of burnt tissue one at a time.

"Inspector Lestrade needs your help. And he's not happy about being ignored." he informed his flatmate, who finally put down the knife and the tweezers with a huff.

"And here I was hoping he developed some competence of his own." the detective grumbled, peeling off his gloves and taking the phone from John. His brow furrowed as he read the messages. "Hm. He always misses on proper punctuation when impatient. I suppose we should hurry." He unrolled his sleeves and buttoned the cuffs.

John looked between Sherlock and his experiment. "And the heart?"

"Throw it in the fridge, if you will." And with that, Sherlock grabbed his jacket and left the kitchen. John threw his hands up and cursed under his breath. Unbelievable. If it were not for Mrs. Hudson, he would have just left it there. But the last thing they needed was to give their poor landlady a terrible scare. She had only just cooled down after the damage Sherlock did to the wall and the inside of the microwave. So, begrudgingly, John picked up the tray and slid it into the fridge. Worse things had been kept in there, anyway.

As they grabbed their coats and headed down to the street, there was a significant change in Sherlock. His previous moodiness had dissolved under the boyish glee he usually showed in the face of a new problem. He was reserved, but it still bubbled under the surface like it always did. Cases had been almost nonexistent after Moriarty's appearance, so this opportunity was like throwing meat to a starving wolf.

"You missed this, didn't you?" John quipped as they hailed a cab and climbed into the back seat. The cold air made him wish he had dried his hair a little better, but his companion was forever unaffected as he gave the driver the address. "Getting involved in murder cases?"

"No, I was quite enjoying a stagnant existence. I looked forward to talking up knitting in the next few days." Sherlock's dull, detached tone was dripping with sarcasm, which sparked a snort from his flatmate.

"That is probably the most terrifying image someone can give me." The veteran smiled to himself, eyes fixed on watching the city pass by. Sherlock's gaze was on him, likely perplexed or unimpressed, but he ignored it. "Anyway, it's no use getting snippy with me. I'm the one who lets you play the violin at ungodly hours and keep heads in the fridge." He swore he felt the car swerve a few centimeters after saying those last words.

"Always with the complaints." Sherlock was now focused on his phone, texting Lestrade back to let him know they were on their way. "You would be just as bored as I if it were not for me keeping you on your toes. And I did get rid of the head."

"You tried to throw it in the trash!"

"Again, just contributing my share of excitement to the world." The detective grinned.


	2. Victoria

And so, the second chapter. Thank you to everyone who offered feedback on the first; it was very encouraging. And it looks like I might have to bump the rating very soon. Things ended up being a little more graphic then I had planned. And depressing. Apologies if you are squeamish. Enjoy!

**Warning:** It's probably not wise to read this if you're sensitive. If you do, please remember that it's FICTION.**  
Disclaimer:** I do not own anything.

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**Chapter II - Victoria **

Sherlock slunk past the police line before they even knew he had arrived. His mind was streamlined like an arrow, making him so focused that he barely heard the rookie officer calling at him to stop as he neared the actual crime scene. The only acknowledgment he had of reality was his brief backward glance to make sure John was following. He was, albeit hesitantly. That sense of discipline in him always made him hesitant to bend rules.

His sights grazed the pavement, littered with marks from wet shoe prints. The 'authorities' always managed to make a mess of the crucial surrounding area of a crime scene. Killers grew less careful the further away they got from the place of the murder or robbery. But this time, on the pavement around the house, there was nothing. Sherlock only glanced up when a familiar figure approached on his left.

"Sorry to break up whatever was more important than a violent crime." Lestrade growled, his impatience still thick. The Inspector looked incredibly tired, and one could bet that he was at the tail end of his shift.

"Pacemaker experiment." Sherlock said, smiling thinly. "Might just save your life one day - judging by your premature grey hair and alarming volume of coffee intake." Despite his snark, Sherlock felt an excited flutter in his chest. Violent crime. It was going to be a good day.

It seemed that Lestrade was in no mood for a losing battle of wits, because he shook his head and led the pair across the lawn and past the modest-sized house. "Thinking we've got a revenge killing. Premeditated to say the very least."

"Footprints in the frost?" Sherlock asked, not listening all that intently. He noticed the faded shimmer in the grass, in areas where the police had not trampled over like a herd of mindless cattle.

"We have photos."

"Ah good! You're learning." He heard John hiss something at him from the side, possibly telling him to cut it out. But how could he help it? His mind was giddy, and needed a whetstone before reaching the body. It was his mental warm-up, which he was sure the Inspector had caught on to years ago. That, or he just gave up on arguing. Either way, it was a convenient arrangement.

When they rounded to the back of the house, through the open gate, the body was in plain sight. However, Sherlock almost tripped over himself in surprise. It was placed perfectly in the middle of the garden, splayed on its side with grisly lacerations facing up for the world to see. Blood, unable to soak into the cold ground, pooled and flooded in the grass all around. Twine was wrapped around and cutting into the shallow muzzle. Four stubby legs were sprawled in awkward directions. Sherlock stared at the bulldog for a moment in shocked silence; in the corner of his eye he saw John flinch away from the scene.

"A dog?" the doctor croaked, his voice strained to the point where it sounded like he might be ill.

"A dog!" Sherlock threw his hands up and turned on Lestrade. "You called me in because someone killed a bloody dog! Is it a slow day, Lestrade? Did you just miss seeing my face?" He felt almost insulted. But the older man was unwavering, and only fixed Sherlock with a dark, hard stare.

"The owner is an old friend of mine, Holmes. That dog was the only thing he had in his life. That and her pups. Look," He shifted his stance and leaned closer. "Just examine the body and tell me what you find so we can clean this up. Five minutes, that all I ask."

Sherlock sighed with all of the annoyance of a scolded teenager and gave a lopsided nod and a curt 'fine'. He looked to John, who appeared very pale. Seriously? Over a dog? The detective rolled his eyes and approached the murdered animal alone. With his usual swiftness, he began his examination.

* * *

John could only observe from a distance, the horror still keeping him firmly in place. He had seen many terrible things in war, and in cases with Sherlock, but this hit him at an odd angle. It was simply, in his mind, savage to so such a thing to an innocent animal. Looking to the Inspector, he cleared his throat in order to rediscover his voice, but he was still a little uneasy in speaking.

"You don't know why someone would do such a thing? Revenge, you said?" he asked, eyes darting back to Sherlock. He was moving around and observing different parts of the animal with his usual feline grace, but his excitement was a little dampened. He was entirely in his own world.

"The owner is Mark Albany." Lestrade explained, also watching the detective work. "He is a recently retired prison guard. No real enemies, but you can imagine how many friends he had at work. I've known him for a long time, though, and he is a good man. Intimidating as all hell, but friendly. Victoria - the dog - was his baby. She was harmless." There was a hint of genuine sadness in his voice. "But the murder was somehow personal."

John took a deep breath and shook his head. It was sickening. "I'm sorry. That's... not right at all." He tried hard to focus on the practical rather than the emotional, like Sherlock would. "Is Mark still here?"

"Went to the station a couple hours ago with Donovan. I couldn't imagine he would want to stay here with her still in the garden."

"Right." John breathed. he would not think of going to talk to the man, anyway. He was likely too upset to talk to more people than necessary. He watched as Sherlock straightened up and looked to him, wiping the thigh of his pants as he had not bothered with gloves.

"Well?" Lestrade prompted, sounding quite anxious. John could imagine why.

"Well, what can I tell you about a bloody dog?" Sherlock tossed back. "Purebred English Bulldog from a registered breeder, going by the inner lip tattoo. Immaculately trained, but not for guardian work."

"How do you figure?" John tried to interject, already a little thrown off by such an observation.

"The collar, John. A dog built like that, stocky and all muscle, is powerful. Could drag a full grown man around the block. Her collar is thin, custom - made for the tags and decoration only. Her owner must be good with dogs, or have experience in a field that demands a calm, dominant mentality. Military or law enforcement. Which could support the theory of personal vengeance. She died quickly, with a knife wound that pierced her heart. Now, doctor, if you have control over your stomach, do you think you could assist me with these lacerations?"

In all honesty, John did not know if he could do it. He stared at his flatmate, his eyes pleading just a tiny bit. But it was countered with an unimpressed look that just screamed _'Really, John? Really? It's a goddamn dog'_. With his usual look to Lestrade for permission, he reluctantly stepped over to the dead animal. He had to draw on his early medical school days, when all they got to use was dead pigs and rats. He always had more trouble doing that then cutting into human corpses. Slowly, he knelt down beside the animal, just out of the sticky blood pool. Sherlock, watching him more than the dog, lowered himself as well.

There was anger behind those cuts. Vicious slashes that had dangerous precision but all the passion of a bloodthirsty monster. And they had such a distinctive message in them, too. What it meant, however, he had no clue. He looked between those and the killing blow, a stab into the chest cavity like Sherlock had confirmed. He shook his head.

"Died very early this morning. Those slashes are postmortem wounds." he said, looking back up to Sherlock. "Done after the heart stopped pumping, so it didn't bleed too much. Looks like a practiced series of cuts. Definitely not medical, but precise."

"Very good. And what do you make of message in them?" Sherlock asked, his eyes now back on the dog.

"Numbers." Lestrade cut in, crossing his arms uncomfortably over his chest. "260708, we gathered."

"The twenty-sixth of July, two thousand and eight." Sherlock elaborated with a thoughtful, distant tone. "Her owner's got a dark day in his past, it seems."

"I'll see if anything jogs his memory once he's calmed down." Again, there was anxiety in the Inspector's voice. "Anything else you've got?"

"Yes, yes. Pups. You said she had pups. Are they here?"

They were lead to the back door of the house, and John was more than relieved to get away from the deceased animal. It give him such chills that he thought he may never be warm again. When they stepped inside, a circular pen of puppies in the sitting room exploded into excited, anxious yipping. Five clumsy piles of wrinkles rushed the side of the pen, climbing over each other to get a better look at the guests. John felt his heart sink as he approached.

"Was he going to sell these dogs?" Sherlock asked, glancing to Lestrade. He shrugged.

"Possibly. He's bred before. Same stud, and paid an obscene amount of money for it both times. He and the other owner are good friends. Never had a problem."

"So not one pup was stolen or harmed?"

"Not one."

Sherlock gave an exasperated snort. John had bent down to pick up one of the pups. He was the smallest one, and looked quite like his mother in the pattern of brown and white patches over his fur. The puppy was calmer than the others, almost lazy in the act of slobbering all over the doctor's face and neck in greeting. Still, he wiggled ecstatically in the presence of a new friend. For the life of him, John could not hide the sad smile that overpowered his solemn expression. He could sense in upset in him - in all of them. They wanted to know where their mother was.

"Let's go, John." Sherlock was already headed out the door. "There's nothing more we can do, here. Lestrade, call me in when you have details."

"That's it, then?" John asked, holding the puppy for a moment longer before setting him back down in the pen. "You've got nothing?"

"I need the footprint pictures, the owner's career history and a few hours to think. And, Inspector, a proper case next time if it isn't too much trouble. Come along, Doctor. I want you out of here before you consider adopting a little beast of your own."

Slightly abashed and a little insulted by Sherlock's lack of heart (yet not all that surprised), John looked to Lestrade, who gave an exhausted shrug. He wished they could do more at the moment. However, he knew that Sherlock would wave down a taxi and leave without him if he delayed, so he followed nonetheless. This was not without a backward glance at the clambering pile of puppies on the floor.

* * *

**Epic Serious Disclaimer Footnote:** Please don't harp on me about 'animal cruelty' or 'abuse'. I love animals. I walk and train dogs for a living. Perhaps that was what gave me the idea to start off on such a note - it's jarring to me personally. And I wanted to start off with something that would shock readers, yet keep Sherlock bored to tears. Every single animal, domestic or wild, deserves dignity and respect. I take animal cruelty very, very seriously. But the death of Victoria the bulldog is crucial to the story. I bet you can already figure out why. If you need any proof of my love of animals, you can see it obviously leaked into John a little bit.


	3. 260708

I suppose you can say I feel guilty about the previous chapter, because I'm uploading this one not long after. The quicker we can get past the ugly bit, the better. I promise from now on it will be good old fashioned human murders. I also desperately need to get some humour in here to lighten it up. Anyway, enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I STILL own nothing.

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**Chapter III - 260708**

Mark Albany was a difficult man to see in tears. He towered over even Sherlock, at a startling 6'5" and possessing a very strong build. But right now he looked rather small, seated in a chair with his head in his hands as he struggled to collect himself. His hair, an age-revealing mixture of white and brown was strewn about his head in random directions, stressed by his thick fingers constantly running through them. The discovery of his poor dog had been made the previous morning, and he was obviously still quite shaken by it. When anyone so much as alluded to anything remotely canine, his body would give a shudder.

He was co-operative, however, when Sherlock claimed Lestrade's office as their work area and began a whirlwind of file searching and sporadic questioning. And, since the detective was not exactly sensitive when relating to the grieving, John had to sit opposite to the large man and delicately reword the questions. Lestrade, still looking like he wanted to mainline pure caffeine and nicotine, was at his (now disastrously organized) desk and reading through prison reports from where Mark worked right before his retirement.

"No, no," Sherlock hissed to himself as he laid the photos of the footprints flat on the desk. He sounded rather angry, but it was fleeting. "These are brand new shoes. Look at the crisp lines in the sole patterns, not a single hint of wear! He must have bought them just for this."

John, having not slept all night, rubbed his eyes and yawned. He had no idea how his flatmate was still so energetic after playing the violin and pacing the house until sunrise. "Maybe he got rid of them after the fact?"

"Not anywhere in the area, he's too smart for that. But we can get something off this." There was a great amount of focus in the detective, and his eyes were shifting from annoyance, to determination to buzzing excitement. Certainly not decent in the presence of the owner of the murdered dog, but John knew better than to cut in at that moment. "Size 12 men's shoe. Tall man with long legs, going by the stride. They were not a perfect fit, though. One of the prints is a little smudged, like the shoe was big enough to shift around his foot."

"Any hint on what kind?" John asked.

"Cheap, store-brand sneakers." There was a dismissive tone in Sherlock's voice, as if he was pleading for John to stop distracting him. The doctor sighed sharply and slumped in his chair. His eyes traveled the office, going from Sherlock, to Lestrade, to Mark Albany. This was a case he really did not want to be a part of; the whole idea of it was just upsetting to him. Hearing Mark talk about Victoria, and how she was sweeter and gentler than any Labrador, was especially difficult. He even showed John a wallet picture; she had been a beautiful dog in life. She really was the only family he had, with his parents deceased and having never gotten married, himself.

"Um, how was your dog outside so late last night?" John ventured, deciding that Sherlock was too enveloped in his out thoughts at the moment.

Mark rubbed his hands down the length of his broad, square face, clearly attempting to keep himself composed. "I always kept the dog-door open so she could go out whenever she wanted. She sometimes went out into the garden when her pups were getting too needy. But I didn't even hear her bark - she would have barked if she saw someone on the property."

"The twine." Sherlock cut in. "He blindsided the dog and clamped her muzzle shut. Then he attacked before she could fight against him."

"Sherlock," John hissed, utterly exasperated. Mark was a rigid man, but the waver in him was unmistakable when hearing such things. As his companion simply shook his head and returned to his own task, John turned back to the owner. "We do know that she didn't suffer." he tried to remind him. The man simply nodded, refusing to look at anyone.

"July twenty-sixth, two-thousand and eight." Lestrade piped up, shoving one paper over to Sherlock. "Whitemoor Maximum Security Prison, where Mark worked, had a small riot that day. Two inmates were killed."

Mark grew just a little more pale, as if the resurfacing memory threatened to make him ill. "I never bothered to remember what day that was, but I can recall that." He ran his fingers through his hair again, looking like he was ready to rip it out of his scalp. "I was one of the guards taking some of the DSPD's into the yard for their hour."

"Sorry, what?" John hated to interrupt, but he was of no use if lost.

"Dangerous and Severe Personality Disorder." Mark elaborated. "These men weren't right. They had anger problems, or didn't feel anything at all. The slightest thing could set them off. It was like trying to keep control over a pack of wild dogs, but we tried to give them dignity."

"They broke into a fight, didn't they? On the way to the yard?" There was not much of a questioning tone in Sherlock's voice. "One of them snapped."

"Yes." Mark nodded. "He turned on the others out of the blue. Mustn't have thought it through at all. Before we knew it, he had a shank and was stabbing one of the younger men - over and over in the chest - until we put the taser on him. The victim was just a kid. Barely twenty-two."

"But they were all set off, weren't they? Another died."

"By the time we broke it up, there was another badly injured. He died in the hospital that night. But that kid, though, he never caused trouble. He was one of the quiet ones, polite and seemed normal until you really got talking to him."

"Benjamin Hale." Sherlock was reading from the record. "Four stab wounds, died within minutes, the weapon was crafted from a turkey bone. It seemed he was serving a life sentence for murder, and was placed in DSPD due to his apparent lack of remorse and care for human life."

The room gained a heavy silence, and John had to turn his head away a little. Something between a quiet laugh and an uncomfortable cough sat in his throat, but he dared not let it out. In the corner of his vision, he saw Sherlock look at all of them and settle his eyes on Lestrade.

"What?" It was the first time he ever heard Sherlock Holmes sound... defensive?

"Nothing." Lestrade leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "I suppose you'll be wanting Hale's full prison record."

"As well as the court case files, and any record on Benjamin Hale's family. Call me as soon as you have those. John and I have some errands to run." Sherlock spoke quickly and was headed for the door before John could make any sort of protest or throw any questions at him. But just as the detective was heading out, the door opened abruptly and just missed smashing him in the nose. Sergeant Donovan gave him a sideways glance (that almost looked disappointed about the lack of harm done) before her attention returned to the Inspector.

"We just got a call about a body found in the Soho area. From the sounds of it, we've got some similarities. It's human this time." she informed the room, unable to hide her anxiety. It went without saying that everyone had hopes that they would never see such a brutal murder again, on an animal or human being. Of course, Sherlock was exempt from that general opinion.

"Another? A repeated murder?" The detective's annoyance quickly faded into unashamed enthusiasm. "John, come quickly. No sense sitting and chatting when there's a serial killer waiting for the chase!" Then, he was gone. Just gone. Dashing past desks and leaving a whirlwind of confusion in his wake. John simply sat there, somehow still amazed when this sort of thing happened. With a sense of defeat, he hauled himself up. There Sherlock went, taking off to a crime scene that he did not know the location of, with all the glee of a child on Christmas morning. As he left with an awkward, apologetic smile to everyone else, he watched as Mark Albany turned to Lestrade with unbridled amazement.

"That heartless sod? _That_ is the 'Ace Card' you've always told me about?"


End file.
